{"id":36812,"date":"2012-08-08T15:50:09","date_gmt":"2012-08-08T19:50:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=36812"},"modified":"2012-08-08T15:50:09","modified_gmt":"2012-08-08T19:50:09","slug":"the-southern-underbelly-remembering-lewis-nordan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/08\/08\/the-southern-underbelly-remembering-lewis-nordan\/","title":{"rendered":"The Southern Underbelly: Remembering Lewis Nordan"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The other night, in order to feel close to my friend Lewis \u201cBuddy\u201d Nordan, who recently died, I started rereading his novel Wolf Whistle<\/em>, a story inspired by the murder of Emmett Till in 1954. (Buddy grew up in the Mississippi Delta near the place of the murder. He knew the murderers. He became friends with Emmett Till\u2019s mother.)<\/p>\n

After reading the opening chapter, I took my dog outside under the moonlight. I felt wrapped in Buddy\u2019s language. The night was cool. The half-moon was bright enough to throw shadows. When my dog disappeared in the shadow of a cedar tree, I started sketching in my mind a few paragraphs of fiction about a boy and his dog. Minutes later, back inside, I had five paragraphs on paper, a novel opening, something I\u2019d been seeking for months. I read it over. There in my sentences, besides the dog and the bright half-moon and shadows, I found an improbable gathering of nouns: frogs, the Battle of Fort Fisher, a flood plane, Bela Fleck, the planet Venus, and a set of plans for a freelance funeral militia. I had opened up to something. Both my opening up and the something were gifts made possible in large part by Buddy\u2019s odd vision\u2014a vision that allowed him to juxtapose thunderbolts and whispers, a vision on display here in his opening to chapter nine of Wolf Whistle<\/em>, occurring after the murder at the center of the book:<\/p>\n

\n

From the eye that Solon\u2019s bullet had knocked from its socket and that hung now upon the child\u2019s moon-dark cheek in the insistent rain, the dead boy saw the world as if his seeing were accompanied by an eternal music, as living boys, still sleeping, in their safe beds, might hear singing from unexpected throats one morning when they wake up, the wind in a willow shade, bream bedding in the shallows of a lake \u2026<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The chapter continues from the perspective of the murdered boy\u2019s eye.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Buddy\u2019s geography, rural Mississippi, might invite comparisons to William Faulkner\u2019s. Buddy\u2019s Yoknapatawpha is Arrow Catcher, a place where the humor is looser and more carefree than that found in Mr. Bill\u2019s imaginary milieu. In Music from the Swamp<\/em>, a boy narrator and his friend, Roy Dale, observe an argument between Roy Dale\u2019s passive daddy, Runt, and his mean mama, Fortunata.<\/p>\n

\n

Runt was glum. He said, \u201cI scrubbed the basement floor.\u201d It was an apology and an admission of guilt.
Fortunata [sniffing] said, \u201cMy God, what did you use!\u201d
Runt was hidden inside his own head. His eyes peered out of a skull. He looked like a rat in a soup can.
I was frightened of what might happen next. I said to Roy Dale, \u201cWant to go outside?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Mr. Faulkner and Buddy and all writers have their ways of \u201cturning loose.\u201d Some rely mainly on humor, others on violence, and the turning loose may come to have some predictability about it. When Mr. Faulkner turns loose, I sense the writer turning loose\u2014all that rich, complicated history, and personal and family drama comes foaming up to the reader, courtesy of the writer. When Buddy turns loose, it\u2019s so often a character turning loose\u2014or it feels that way to me\u2014the character\u2019s syntax\/idiom delivered so precisely it feels clairvoyant. Here\u2019s a character in The Sharpshooter Blues<\/em> talking about shooting a pistol:<\/p>\n

\n

You wouldn’t want to be careless with it, you wouldn’t want to hurt anybody, but to fire a shot out your bedroom window, say into a neighbor’s garage, or in your own kitchen, into a large appliance, maybe, or just through the ceiling, when you were singing the blues, when you had lost your dear wife in childbirth and your only son had come out a waterhead, well, there was not a thing in the world to criticize about shooting off a pistol in that case, now was there, nothing but a good idea to spread a few rounds through the house, nail a few nails in the wall, so to speak, melt a little ice cream.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Once we became friends, Buddy and I enjoyed talking about, among other subjects, mishaps and dread\u2014his end often laced in understatement. His mind often seemed to work in casual conversation like it did in fiction writing. One Saturday afternoon we were chatting on the phone. That morning my puppy\u2019s lips swelled up after shots from a vet. I\u2019d then taken him back to the vet, where he got another shot that made his lips go down.<\/p>\n

Buddy started the conversation telling me about the rescue squad coming to his house two nights earlier when a family member had suffered an asthma attack\u2014siren, flashing lights, gurney, the scare, fear of death. Surely he omitted no detail. He went right into another story about a car accident earlier that week, involving another member of his family\u2014the crash, hospital visit, counseling, concern, et cetera.<\/p>\n

There was a pause and I didn\u2019t know exactly what to say. I mumbled something like, \u201cGosh, that was all pretty bad,\u201d and then said, \u201cWell, my dog\u2019s lips swelled up this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

Buddy says, \u201cAnd here I\u2019ve been going on and on and on.\u201d<\/p>\n

In Buddy\u2019s work I often find some balancing of Kafka, Jesus, and Monty Python. And reading him I sometimes wish everybody came from where he came from so they might better know firsthand the marvels of his characters\u2019 language. In that place he grew up, the Delta, you might find (compared to Faulkner\u2019s hometown) some few degrees of movement toward a kind of apparent modern Southern underbelly. Maybe Buddy does his characters a little too well\u2014and maybe that embarrasses any number of modern readers. When the South he often depicts seems a little more ancient, removed, historical, if it ever does, I think his name on the betting sheet, horse card, or whatever it is will move a little closer to Mr. Bill\u2019s.<\/p>\n

Clyde Edgerton<\/a> is the author of ten novels, a memoir, and numerous short stories, and essays. He has been a Guggenheim Fellow and five of his novels have been<\/em> New York Times Notable Books. <\/em><\/p>\n

[tweetbutton]<\/p>\n

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The other night, in order to feel close to my friend Lewis \u201cBuddy\u201d Nordan, who recently died, I started rereading his novel Wolf Whistle, a story inspired by the murder of Emmett Till in 1954. (Buddy grew up in the Mississippi Delta near the place of the murder. He knew the murderers. He became friends […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":390,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[8371,8372,8370,5823,8374,8373],"class_list":["post-36812","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-buddy-nordan","tag-emmett-till","tag-lewis-nordan","tag-mississippi","tag-mississippi-delta","tag-music-from-the-swamp"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Southern Underbelly: Remembering Lewis Nordan by Clyde Edgerton<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 8, 2012 \u2013 The other night, in order to feel close to my friend Lewis \u201cBuddy\u201d Nordan, who recently died, I started rereading his novel Wolf Whistle, a story inspired\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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